“Never,” Masterman said.
Clipboard Guy stood up and exchanged words with Tiff. Then both of them laughed, and Clipboard Guy stepped away.
Masterman took his arm off Bernadette’s chair and yelled toward the couple, “Action!”
A fat cameraman closed in, and Tiff and Doug launched into the perfunctory dialogue.
Tiff, looking up at Doug with her bound hands on his chest: “I’m afraid. What if it doesn’t work?”
Doug, pulling Tiff close by her shoulders: “Then we were meant to be together.”
Tiff leaned her head back as Doug kissed her, and the crown fell to the floor with a clatter. The fisherman swept the princess off her feet and went around to the back of the aquarium. He held the nude woman over the water. “Are you ready?”
“This could be goodbye forever,” she said breathlessly.
“I’ll never forget you,” he said, and set her down into the water.
The cameraman moved in closer while Doug held Tiff beneath the surface by the shoulders. Craning her neck to look around the cameraman, Bernadette could see the young woman squirm and twist, her long hair swirling around her head and face. Bubbles escaped from her nose and mouth. She kicked at the end of the tank with her bound feet and sent waves splashing over the sides. Doug adjusted his grip, his hands moving from her shoulders to her breasts.
Bernadette jumped out of her chair and started for the tank. “She’s in trouble.”
Masterman snagged her by the elbow. “Tiff’s fine.”
Garcia started to move toward the tank. “He’s drowning her.”
Before Garcia could take another step, Tiff sat up in the aquarium, shivering and panting. “I’m done. This water is f-freezing.”
The cameraman looked over at his director and gave the thumbs-up sign. “I got it.”
“Good,” said Masterman. He bent over and retrieved Bernadette’s trench coat from the floor.
Garcia snatched the coat from his hands. “I hope we didn’t ruin your shot.”
Masterman smiled. “No. It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine,” said Bernadette. “What if you’re doing actual harm with this violent stuff?”
“I’m not,” he said confidently. “It’s harmless entertainment.”
“Don’t you ever doubt yourself and your profession?” asked Garcia.
“Don’t you doubt yours at times?” Masterman shot back.
If only he knew their true profession, thought Bernadette. “I’m certain what we do doesn’t injure innocent people.”
“As Voltaire penned in his letter to Frederick the Great: ‘Doubt is not a pleasant condition, but certainty is an absurd one.’”
“Thank you for your time,” said Garcia, helping Bernadette on with her trench coat.
Masterman said, “Sounds like you’re not going to be sending us any checks.”
“Your subject matter seems over the top even for an adult video,” Garcia said.
“It’s too risky for our group,” added Bernadette. “Maybe if you returned to more conventional fare.”
“I can show you our books. We’re highly profitable.”
“We don’t need to see your books,” Garcia said.
Bernadette said, “We know our people, and they won’t go for this drowning business. Hoses are one thing, but that tank is scary.”
“I guess I screwed myself when I insisted that you stay and watch.”
“Better to find out at this early juncture,” she said, pulling her gloves tighter over her fingers.
“What can I do to change your mind?” Masterman laughed dryly. “I really want your money.”
“As Mick Jagger penned, ‘You can’t always get what you want,’” said Garcia.
She extended her hand. “We’ll call you.”
Masterman trapped her small hand between the two of his and flashed the wolf grin again. “If you ever want to meet outside of work and discuss it further over drinks …” Garcia glared at Masterman, and the director released Bernadette’s hand. “Or not.”
The two agents headed for the exit, letting the heavy door slam behind them.
“How did it go?” asked the fuchsia sweater as the pair hurried past the lobby desk.
“Swimmingly,” said Garcia, punching a plastic palm as they made their way to the glass doors.
THEY DECOMPRESSED while standing together in the parking lot behind her truck. “Well, that was illuminating,” said Bernadette.
“Right,” said Garcia, fumbling behind him to try to undo her necklace.
“Here, let me,” she said, and he turned around and scrunched down so she could unfasten the chain.
“Is the professor still on your short list?”
“This didn’t change anything,” she said. “He’s our main suspect.”
“Motive?”
She looked toward the building they’d just exited. “Some sort of sexual perversion involving drowning.”
Garcia watched while she put the necklace back on. “I hope you’re ready to see more sick shit. You and I have second shift tonight.”
She wrapped her coat tight around her. “At least that gives me time to go home and shower. I really feel like I need a shower.”
BERNADETTE KEPT the windows rolled down as she navigated the truck back to St. Paul. The cold autumn air roared into the cab and slapped her face hard, knocking the image of the drowning tank to the back of her head.
Masterman’s explanation for why men latched onto certain fetishes wasn’t a revelation. She knew that the way people were raised influenced their adult habits. As an FBI agent, she’d witnessed the criminal behaviors passed from one generation to the next in a troubled family. Molestation victims became molesters. The children of thieves grew up to make their living by cheating and stealing. Kids raised by drunks became drunks themselves. Hearing a pornographer’s spin on childhood influences, however, pushed the idea to the forefront of her thinking. Had Professor Wakefielder suffered some sort of water-related trauma? It could be basic: he’d nearly drowned as a child or watched a playmate go under.
Chapter 20
IT WAS GOOD to be home. It had been a tough day, but it was going to be a fine night. He sipped and savored the lava flowing to his gut, joining the fire that was always there. As he set the Scotch down on the bathroom vanity, he took stock of the reflection in the mirror. Fair hair and brightly colored eyes. Properly sized nose for the face. No real wrinkles and a minimal number of lines. Mouth a little too full and feminine, perhaps. Overall, it was a handsome face when viewed in the right light.
It was an amiable face that betrayed nothing of the tumult beneath the surface.
He reached down and scratched himself through the robe. Performing the music of Giuseppe Verdi, the voice of Andrea Bocelli washed from the master bedroom into the tiled cubicle. He dropped the bathrobe onto the floor and stepped into the stall. He closed the glass door and activated the hot water. A rain-shower spray needled his scalp.
While he lathered, he thought about the little blonde he’d met that day. So small he could hold her under with one hand.
Closing his eyes, he tilted his face up to the spray and imagined what it would be like not only to hold her under but to wrestle with her in the water. She would writhe and roll and push against his body. Scream and scratch and kick. The two of them would become a single entity, a multilimbed monster churning the waters in a magnificent death thrall.
While a heavy aria from Ernani provided the background, he reached down, wrapped his hand around himself, and worked his imaginings into an erection. He didn’t take it to completion; he needed to reserve himself for the woman waiting for him in the next room. He would do her differently from the rest; he would keep her around for a while. An extended courtship.
HIS CLOTHES SAT in a heap in a corner of the dim bedroom, the only light coming from the open door of the bathroom. Curled in another corner was what appeared to be a second mound of clothing.